


The Terebus Literary Society Reads Persuasion

by Jennytheshipper



Category: Persuasion - Jane Austen, The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror (TV 2018) RPF, The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, kicking history in the balls, passing off dodgy poetry on unsuspecting reader, shameless use of literary classic to further my own ends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-17 22:34:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21750814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jennytheshipper/pseuds/Jennytheshipper
Summary: After Carnivale, Francis Crozier is looking for a way to cheer up Captain Fitzjames. Set between episodes 6 and 7. Canon compliant until it isn't.
Relationships: Anne Elliot/Frederick Wentworth, Captain Francis Crozier & Sir James Clark Ross, Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames, Harry D. S. Goodsir/Lady Silence | Silna, John Bridgens/Harry Peglar, Sophia Cracroft & Captain Francis Crozier
Comments: 32
Kudos: 127





	The Terebus Literary Society Reads Persuasion

**Author's Note:**

> My undying gratitude to Idlesuperstar and Onstraysod for their beta work and unflagging emotional labor. 
> 
> Illustrations by the incomparable Oochilka. (Oochilka.tumblr...)

After the dreadful fire at Carnivale, Crozier threw a dinner with the last of his fresh stores. His design had been to cheer Captain Fitzjames. Crozier’s first feeling watching Jopson whisk away Fitzjames’ untouched plate of marrow toast, was one of resentment at the man’s ingratitude. But clearly if he was this off his feed, there was something deeply wrong. During the consomme, Crozier attempted to draw out Fitzjames by encouraging him to tell the story of Zhenjiang , but Fitzjames demured with “you’ve heard me tell it often enough. I should think you’re tired of it.” 

“How about telling us about your walk then, from Baghdad was it?” Crozier tried.

“Yes, I’d like to hear about that as well,” Lieutenant Little chimed in.

The lads were slurping up the last of the salted cod in white sauce as Fitzjames finished his tale of his escape from kidnappers. “Of course the mail arrived in England six weeks after the copies the Company sent around the horn. But it was the principal of the thing we proved.” His mood had brightened slightly and his cheeks could be said to be almost pink, but Crozier noted that he had not touched his food. While it was possible he was too distracted by talking, that had never been a problem in the past.

The grand finale of Crozier’s dinner-- a raised pie of jellied pork jowl --was met with more enthusiasm by Fitzjames. He ate quietly and quickly and Crozier noted, with pleasure, that he seemed almost cheerful in his praises of the pie. Though this was alas shortlived and by the time they’d all said their goodbyes and the party had set off on the walk back to Erebus, Fitzjames looked as morose and pitiable as he had when the evening had begun. 

In Frustration, Crozier turned to Fitzjames’ former steward who was now billeted on Terror as Dr. Goodsir’s assistant. John Bridgens had become something of a ship’s librarian, with an extensive collection of books, and a great deal of knowledge about their contents. The next morning Crozier approached him in Dr. Goodsir’s sickbay, on the pretext of borrowing his copy of _The Vicar of Wakefield,_ which his particular friend, Mr. Blanky, the Ice Master, had lately enjoyed. 

“Captain Fitzjames visits every day, doesn’t he?” Crozier began.

“Yes, he’s very devoted. I suppose he must feel somewhat responsible for their injuries.”

“I don’t see why he would.”

“Well, the Carnivale was his idea.”

“You may be right. He should not blame himself, but he might do. The question is. How do I stop it?”

“Stop him coming round?”

“No, no, how do I stop him feeling guilty. He is so low of late.”

“Yes, I couldn’t fail to notice. Perhaps some intellectual stimulation might do him good.”

“We meet most every day, weather permitting, to discuss supplies and to plan the walk out, deal with matters of running the ships. He does not want for company or for work.”

“Yes, sir, and I think it very good. But perhaps something to lift the spirits? A discussion of literature. A literary society perhaps?”

Captain Crozier gave Bridgens a wary glance at the word “society.” It was the sort of thing he dreaded. Extra work. First the reading, never easy going for him, his education having been arrived at in bits and pieces on ships. As captain, his opinion would naturally be sought and that would mean having to have comments prepared. Genteel discussions over tea. All things that pained him to varying degrees. He was happy to read on his own in peace, save for the occasional foray into Sir John’s dictionary to define an unknown word in _Vicar of Wakefield_. 

“What do you have in mind?” Crozier not wanting to dismiss the idea out of hand. Asking further questions was one way to defer, to talk the men out of something which would not do but that they had their hearts set upon. They would, in answering the questions, see how unsuitable the proposal was. “What would a literary society encompass? In your view?” 

“Well, sir, just a gathering of a few people. Officers, petty officers, even able seaman if they are readers and want to better themselves. Might offer a different perspective to the usual.”

“Able seaman? That seems rather bold.” Crozier was unsure. It was all well and good to join in the occasional song with the men, or to dance a jig at a holiday to show your spirit, but to sit down and discuss books? It was unheard of.

“Able Seaman Peglar, sir, has been borrowing books from me for years. I would put him next to any set of learned men, for catching onto a theme or expressing a literary trope.”

“Harry Peglar? Captain of the Foretop? A reader?” Francis was a bit shocked. Peglar was a steady hand: you had to be, to walk the tops the way he did. He was surprised to learn he had such hidden depths.

“Yes, the very same. Why, we had a discussion of Sir Walter Scott’s _The Lady of the Lake_ 1the other night, that wouldn’t have been out of place in any London coffee house. Fewer oaths used as well.”

“I’ve no doubt of it,” Francis said, smiling, secretly ashamed to admit that he’d never read _The Lady of the Lake_ and wasn’t at all sure what kind of writing it was, poem or prose.

Mr. Hoar arrived to say that Captain Fitzjames was in the great cabin and asking for him, saving Crozier the trouble of having to think of a clever answer for Bridgens. 

“How do you propose to get around the lack of books? You have many fine volumes here but wouldn’t it be more useful if we all read the same thing? It would take months, perhaps years, for us to pass one copy between the lot of us.”

“I do have a book in mind, sir. Lady Jane was kind enough to furnish the expedition with ten copies of Jane Austen’s _Persuasion_. They are in a box of Sir John’s things. I ran across them when we were moving Captain Fitzjames into Sir John’s quarters.”

“Jane Austen, eh?” Crozier said. He’d never read any Austen. Always assumed it to be romantic drivel, stories of ladies in drawing rooms. Lots of swooning. That sort of thing.

“I imagine she thought it would be a good book for us to read because it will remind us of home. And because the hero of the book is a sailor and he has many sailor friends.”

Crozier quirked his brow at Bridgens. He didn’t need to be reminded of home and neither did Fitzjames. Still, it might be amusing to discover what a fine lady like Jane Austen thought the lives of sailors were like. It might be the sort of rubbish that would be a bit of sport for them all to pick apart. 

“Alright, Bridgens. I give you my leave to make a list of men who you think would benefit by the society. I’ll not give you my promise yet, mind you, but go ahead and make a list.”

This was another of Crozier’s favorite tactics for deferment: give the man a tedious chore to test his commitment to the idea or wear him out on it, before it’s really begun. In this way Sophia Cracroft had slipped the noose of his second marriage proposal. The thought of Miss Cracroft caused a familiar pang and he was happy to occupy his mind otherwise as he headed into Erebus’s great cabin, to begin poring over a report on the state of the ship’s cabling with the officers. 

Toward the end of the hour-long meeting, Crozier took note of Fitzjames' blank expression while Lt. Le Vescounte described in detail the mildew which had taken root in the spare cable. No doubt Fitzjames was mentally tallying the many yards of rope lost during the fire at Carnivale. It was almost as if he didn’t want to be at a meeting about moldy rope. In any case, he looked like a man deep in the “brown study.” Crozier knew that look. He had seen it daily in the mirror for a year and half.

He had almost made up his mind to let Bridgens go through with his scheme as he walked back through the warren of cabins in officers’ country, when he found himself standing face to face with the former steward, who knuckled a quick salute.

“If I may, the list you requested, sir,” Bridgens said, removing a piece of folded paper from his waistcoat pocket. Crozier was surprised that he’d gotten it in order so quickly. Perhaps he had a list in mind before Crozier had requested it? Bridgens had been around a long time and knew the ways of sea captains better than they knew themselves, apparently.

“I will take this under advisement, but I think it is a sound idea in principle, though I’m still skeptical about the mixing of officers, petty officers, and seamen. It will depend upon the list.”

“Of course, sir. I’m honored you are considering the idea.”

“Nonsense. I begin to see the necessity of such a scheme. You know your captain well.”

“When I was his steward, sir, it was my entire job to know him well.”

“Ay, true, true.” Crozier thought of the scenes of utter disgrace and dissipation that Jopson had witnessed before and during his illness and had to turn away to hide his blushes. 

“I’ll be back tomorrow, providing the weather holds, and I’ll give you my final answer then, Mr. Bridgens,” he said as he walked away.

***

Mr Goodsir joined Lt. Little, Mr. Blanky, and Captain Crozier who formed the center of the small party that returned to Terror that afternoon. Carrying rifles before and aft were their marine guards, Corporal Hedges and Private Hammond. 

“Mr Bridgens has an idea, which I think might make the rest of the winter a little more cheerful,” Crozier began.

Mr. Blanky grunted his agreement. Edward Little looked worried, as he often did whenever anything in the way of recreation was mentioned. He’d been very much against the Carnivale and had shown great restraint in never voicing a reproach within the walls of Erebus, though there had been many opportunities to do so. 

“It is only a literary society. A group of us would get together and read a book and discuss it.”

“I suppose it would not hurt for the officers to have some socializing outside of work,” Little said.

“Mr. Bridgens’s scheme also includes petty officers and anyone else interested, including able seamen.”

“Oh sir, do you think it’s wise to encourage mixing ranks, when we have had to work so hard to preserve them?”

“No doubt you refer to the lashings last autumn. But I believe that the damage done by that rift has been largely mended, owing to the fact that we are facing bigger threats from without.”

“There will come a time, lieutenant,” Mr. Blanky said, “when we will want loyalty from the men of all ranks, even more than we want discipline.”

“Listen to Mr. Blanky, Edward. He is a veteran of an Arctic overland expedition. His experience will be invaluable to us.”

“Yes, sir,” Little replied. He did not sound much reassured.

“I have asked Mr. Bridgens to draw up a list of those he thinks might be interested.”

“I will not have time to join the society. But I could spare Bridgens an hour a day,” Goodsir said. Bridgens was attending the lung cases which had been moved to Erebus to make room for burn victims on Terror. Goodsir attended the Erebus sickbay daily and walked to and fro with Crozier and his group.

“I’m sorry to hear that you won’t join us. But it wouldn’t be fair to begin the venture without Bridgens. It’s very generous of you to spare him.”

“I should have enjoyed it. I have been reading the Brothers Grimm to our guest. We could do with a change of pace.”

“Grimm’s _Fairy Tales_ is a nursery book. It makes sense.”

“Well, the way she understands it, it’s more like a mythology.”

“But Jane Austen. Do you think to read Jane Austen to a Netsilik?”

“I don’t think she understands all the words of what I read now. I translate the ideas. And she seems to like to listen to me read.”

Crozier grunted. He could well believe it. Goodsir and Silence had grown even closer since her return on the evening of Carnivale. Goodsir had stitched up her wounds and made daily visits to her new digs near the sickbay. 

Corporal Hedges, who was leading the way, slowed his pace and turned his attention briefly away from the ice in front of them.

“What is it, Hedges?” Crozier asked.

“If this literary society is to be open to anyone, I would like to request to join, sir. I do enjoy reading and have often longed to discuss books.”

“No doubt your fellow Marines are not as enthusiastic about literature as you are.”

“No, sir. That is putting it mildly. They make fun of my bookishness. Do they not, John?” Corporal Hedges said, calling to John Hammond, the rear guard, who stepped forward to where Crozier could see him.

“Ay, sir. We do. But it’s not a mean sort of fun. Only teasing.”

“I’ll consider putting you on the list then, Hedges. Now, back to your posts the pair of you. We’re walking blind out here without you. Anything could happen.”

The two marines snapped back into formation, quickening their pace. The rest of the group followed suit and soon all that was heard was the crunch of many boots in time across the ice, followed by the scrape of Blanky’s wooden leg as it caught up with the others. 

Aboard Terror, Jopson came out to greet him, take his slops, and give him the news of their time away from the ship. 

“Lieutenant Irving has given Mr. Hickey extra duty for disobedience. Failure to follow orders, again.” Crozier shook his head. How much extra duty could they give one man? He’d have to live to be a hundred to do all the back duty he owed as it was. Flogging didn’t seem to have helped either. It seemed to have made him more rebellious, less cautious of rank. In the navy of Crozier’s youth, a man would be flogged round the fleet or even hanged outright for the consistent disrespect that Hickey showed. But those days were long gone, the press gangs abolished, and the Discovery Service — entirely voluntary -- rarely required much in the way of corporal punishment. Crozier could ill afford to show excessive cruelty, especially since Hickey’s bravery during the lashings had made some of the men admire rather than pity or despise him.

“What else is new, Jopson?” Crozier asked with a sigh.

“Mr. Diggle reports more spoiled cans. Another three cases needing to be thrown out.”

“Anything else?” 

“Morfin reports that sickbay was quiet while Dr. Goodsir was away. He administered two headache plasters. And I’ve mended the hole in your spare tunic, sir.”

Crozier smiled and shook his head. “Jopson, you are a wonder. I had not the faintest idea I had a hole in my spare tunic.” 

As they entered Terror’s great cabin, Jopson went straight away to the business of stoking up the small stove. It was icy in the room, especially in comparison to Erebus, which had a more efficient heating system and was always much warmer. Since he’d quit drinking, Crozier felt the cold much more acutely. 

“When you’re done with that, could I trouble you for some tea?”

“Ay, sir. Mr. Diggle put the kettle on when you came aboard, I believe.”

“Thank you,” Crozier said as he fished Mr. Bridgens’s bit of paper out of his coat.

The list read as follows:

Capt. Crozier  
Capt Fitzjames  
Lt. Le Vesconte  
Lt. Little  
Lt. Irving  
Corp. Hedges  
Mr. Honey  
Mr. Collins  
Harry Peglar  
Thomas Hartnell

Crozier found it strange that one of the men who’d been lashed was on the list and that Bridgens’s own name was not there. But for these amendments, he approved the scheme and planned to tell Bridgens to get started distributing the books the next day.

When Jopson returned with his tea, Crozier decided to put the scheme to him. Jopson moved about the cabin tidying as Crozier read the list of names.

“What do you think of Hartnell?”

“He’s stayed out of trouble since the...incident, sir. I know he looks for opportunities to volunteer to help Little and Irving, whenever possible. It might show good faith to include him.”

“Perhaps. I was thinking of replacing him with you, Thomas.”

“Oh, sir, no. Don’t shift anyone on my account.”

“Would you not like the opportunity to better yourself through reading, lad?”

“If it’s all the same to you, sir: no. I mean no disrespect, but I have always considered reading a bit of an unpleasant chore. I’d rather mend tunics. I prefer to sit in the common room and listen to music or chat. No, it’s not for me, sir.”

Crozier agreed that there were many things he’d rather do with his spare time than join a literary society, but he had no better solution to his problem.

When Crozier had drunk as much tea as he could hold, he folded up Bridgens’s list and turned in for the evening. Since his illness, sleep came only with great difficulty. Besides the relentless draft in his cabin which made it difficult to relax, the many details of command cycled through his mind, followed by the usual litany of regrets about Miss Cracroft, his final meeting with Sir John, and Thomas Blanky’s injury for which he largely blamed himself. Perhaps reading would be a comfort? He could only hope.

**The Baronetage**

The following evening Crozier sat in his great cabin shivering, holding the volume of Jane Austen to the lamplight. He had read the first three pages several times, taking in very little of it. _Persuasion_ began with a complex explanation of the history of the Elliot family of Kellynch Hall. Why he should give a damn about them, Crozier couldn’t imagine. There were no sailors so far as he could tell. Bridgens had promised sailors.

Bridgens had decided that they should all read the first five chapters and meet to discuss them in two days, at the end of the command meeting on Erebus. Crozier despaired that he would finish even one chapter before then, such was his progress in the book. 

Crozier found himself idly flipping through the volume which also included a copy of _Northanger Abbey_ and a biography of the author. He noted, with some pleasure, that Miss Austen had a brother in the navy named Francis who had risen to the rank of Admiral. Both the name and his rank seemed to be a good omen to Crozier. According to the biography, Austen had lived with her sailor brother and his family in Portsmouth for several years. Perhaps, given such close observation of sailors, this Austen person wouldn’t be such a bad judge of their habits after all. Still, he could not forgive the maddeningly slow manner in which her book began, dwelling on this fool, Sir Walter, and his cursed _Baronetage_. 

When Jopson brought his supper through, he was relieved to have an interruption. “You’re well out of this, Jopson, I must say. I’m not making much progress in this thing at all.”

“I’m sorry to hear it, sir,” Jopson said. Though Jopson’s face was inscrutable, Crozier could have sworn he saw the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

The next day, Crozier sent Blanky and Little back to Terror with Dr. Goodsir after the command meeting. He stayed behind with Fitzjames while Corporal Hedges waited with his fellow marines on Erebus to escort Crozier home. 

“James, I must confess, I can’t make head nor tails of this blasted book Bridgens has given us.”

“What’s the trouble? It seems straightforward enough to me.” Fitzjames was smiling. Damn him.

“Have you finished the assignment?”

“Almost. But Francis, you ought not to think of it like that. It’s a joy to read, honestly.”

“If you say so. Only, I thought there would be sailors. And I haven’t gotten to any sailors yet.”

“Well how far have you gotten?”

“Page four.”

Fitzjames laughed. “You’re still on Sir Walter, then.”

“Yes, blast him.”

“He’s an amusing character. You’re meant to laugh at him. He’s a fool.”

Francis shrugged. He didn’t feel like laughing. He felt like pouring himself a stiff drink and rereading his last letter from Miss Cracroft. 

“What if I don’t get to the end of chapter five by tomorrow, eh James? What then? I wonder if I can beg off sick? Do you think Bridgens would catch me out in front of everyone?”

James laughed. “He’s not a school master and you’re not a midshipman in his charge, Francis. You’re the captain, remember. You can call the whole thing off at any time. Declare it a mistake.”

Crozier remembered the reason they’d begun the enterprise in the first place and asked, “Are you enjoying it, James?”

“Oh, yes. I can’t wait for you to leave so that I can carry on reading,” Fitzjames said with a grin.

“Really?” Crozier said, unable to disguise the disappointment in his voice. He knew it was selfish but he wished Fitzjames hadn’t taken to the scheme quite so thoroughly.

“Cheer up, Francis. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll read it to you.”

“I can read, James. Bloody hell, it’s not that.”

“No, but listening is better sometimes.”

“ _I’ll_ read to _you_ , how about that?” Crozier snapped, not wanting to concede to accepting help from Fitzjames. This whole scheme was designed to work the other way round.

“Forgive me, Francis, but I’ll not have the voice in my head reading Austen be Irish.”

“Damn your eyes, James!” Crozier shouted, and thumped his fist on the table. Then he blushed at his own churlishness. 

“And besides,” James said, apparently unfazed by the outburst, “I’m in love with the sound of my own voice. You’ve told me that often enough, Francis.”

“True. I have,” Crozier laughed.”Oh, what the hell. Go on, then. Read it out to me.”

Fitzjames disappeared into his room and returned with his book. “You were on page four, was it?”

“You’d better start at the beginning, James,” Crozier said sheepishly.

“Sir Walter Elliot, of Kellynch Hall, in Somersetshire, was a man who, for his own amusement, never took up any book but the _Baronetage_ ,” James began. 

Francis made himself comfortable on the bench. He unbuttoned the top two buttons of his tunic: Christ knew it was warm enough in there to take the bloody thing off, but he still had a sense of decorum. He closed his eyes and listened to Fitzjames' voice, which was mellow and smooth, darting over the intricate, long sentences as if they were entirely natural to him, which damn him, they probably were.

It was not long before Crozier took up not only the thread of the story, but became quite transfixed by one of its characters. Before she was even marked out by the author as the clear heroine of the book, Crozier’s ear hit upon the phrase, “...but the usual fate of Anne attended her, in having something very opposite from her inclination fixed on.” If ever there was a sentence that seemed written about his own life, it was that one. He tried not to dwell on this particular too long, though, as the story moved along quickly, and soon the navy was mentioned as Mr. Elliot’s solicitor suggested a rich navy admiral might rent Kellynch Hall, easing the family debts. Again Crozier found himself warming to Anne who said, “sailors work hard enough for their comforts we must allow.” But Sir Walter! Crozier grit his teeth as James read his rant about the navy bringing obscure persons to undue distinctions. This Sir Walter sounded exactly like Lady Jane Franklin. Sir Walter’s dismissal of the profession on the basis of their ugliness and weather beaten complexions was meant to be comic, and it was funny, but Crozier was too embittered by the reminders of his predicament to much enjoy it.

Fitzjames read on and, again, Anne elicited Crozier’s warmest feelings when her father asked derisively, “Who is Admiral Croft,” and at a moment’s notice — without even consulting the Navy List — she rattled off that man’s achievements. He felt protective of her. The way that she was dismissed and disregarded by her relatives reminded him of Sophia. 

As Fitzjames read the history of Anne’s engagement to Wentworth, Francis shifted uncomfortably on the bench, prompting James to pause twice, the second time to ask, “Alright, Francis?” 

“Yes, yes, carry on,” Crozier answered snappishly, and made an effort to look rather than feel at ease. He recollected a rather hazy memory of telling Fitzjames about Sophia’s request that he join the expedition to look after Sir John, and his own shock and anger when he had realized that Fitzjames knew the whole of his connection with Miss Cracroft. The desire not to seem like he was dwelling on her, and the worry that Fitzjames had stopped reading because the situation in the book was too near to Crozier’s own, occupied so much of his thoughts that he missed a great deal of the nuance of Anne’s relationship with Lady Russell. Crozier had heard enough to tar her with the same brush as he tarred Lady Jane Franklin.

Fitzjames began the fifth and final chapter of the evening by referring to Admiral Croft as “Admiral Cracroft,” which was followed by a series of stammering excuses and blushes on his part. 

“It’s alright, James,” Crozier said, attempting to keep his voice calm. “We were both thinking it. The situation is similar to my own. The name is similar. The man’s wife is named ‘Sophia’ for pity’s sake. Carry on, please.” 

Crozier was relieved that the rest of the chapter dwelt on Anne’s younger, comically hypochondriacal sister, Mary. 

As Crozier rose to leave Fitzjames, he thanked him for the reading.

“Come again tomorrow, Francis,” James said, marking his place in the book, “and we’ll begin on chapter six.”

“If you wish, I will.” Francis was pleased at the invitation. Though it was not exactly what he’d planned in starting the scheme, it did serve to distract Fitzjames.

“I do. I look forward to hearing your thoughts tomorrow at the meeting.”

“I plan on saying as little as possible. It’s an interesting story. Better than I expected. But I will not speak my mind beyond present company.”

“I am honored, sir.”

There was something in his tone of the deference that Fitzjames used to show Sir John. What had irritated him then now warmed Crozier’s heart more than a shot of whiskey. 

“You are an excellent reader, James. I am indebted to you already.”

“I was schooled at home and reading aloud was always encouraged. My mother always insisted on it. I think she just liked to hear stories.”

Francis laughed. He was tempted to ask more about Fitzjames' youth but decided against it. Too much talk of home could be risky. They bid each other goodnight. Francis walked back to Terror, his familiar path through the ice easily made out by the moonlight. Hedges was beside him, happily talking about Sir Walter and his opinions on the physical appearance of sailors. “If only Sir Walter could see our Captain Fitzjames, eh sir? That would surely change his tune!” Crozier laughed, and then cautioned Hedges to refrain from making some observations to the society as a whole. 

**Action in the Year Six**

As promised, Crozier said as little as possible before he turned the Society meeting over to Bridgens. He sat back and sipped his coffee. It had been Fitzjames' idea to have coffee instead of tea: to be more literary, he said. Crozier was not overly fond of the stuff and put at least two lumps of sugar into even the smallest cup. Hoar’s coffee resembled Thames estuary sludge, but they all thanked him profusely as he passed out pieces of chocolate and freshened the pot. 

“I have marked some passages in the book for discussion,” Bridgens began. “Mr. Peglar, will you read the first one?”

“I presume to observe, Sir Walter, that, in the way of business, gentlemen of the navy are well to deal with. I have had a little knowledge of their methods of doing business; and I am free to confess that they have very liberal notions, and are as likely to make desirable tenants as any set of people one should meet with,” Peglar read. Crozier was impressed by his voice which was confident and deeper than in conversation. It was a voice for reading verse or scripture. 

The quotation elicited a few smiles and an outright guffaw from Mr. Honey, the carpenter. “This fella, Mr….”

“Mr. Shepherd,” Bridgens said.

“Shepherd, he never repaired any furniture on a ship, I suppose. I reckon I’ve had to completely overhaul half a dozen chairs from the wardroom alone. And that’s officers! No telling what able seamen would do to Sir Walter’s fancy furniture.”

“Is not a lady the best preserver there is of furniture, though, as the man says?” Bridgens asked. 

“Depends on the lady,” Mr. Honey said to general laughter.

“This Mr. Shepard doesn’t seem entirely trustworthy,” Lt. Le Vesconte said. “Pawning his daughter off on Sir Walter. He’s managing a scheme, I’d wager.”

“Even his name,” Mr. Peglar added. “‘Shepard. Like he’s leading the Elliots to be fleeced.”

“Mr. Peglar has read the book before,” Bridgens said, smiling. “Nevertheless, a lovely observation. Well put.” 

Peglar blushed and studied the shard of chocolate in front of him. Half the table looked with jealousy at Peglar for a moment. No one likes a teacher’s pet. 

Bridgens moved on to the next quote marked out in his volume.

“He was not Mr Wentworth, the former curate of Monkford, however suspicious appearances may be, but a Captain Frederick Wentworth, his brother, who being made commander in consequence of the action off St Domingo, and not immediately employed, had come into Somersetshire, in the summer of 1806; and having no parent living, found a home for half a year at Monkford.”

“Those were the days, eh Bridgens?” Fitzjames said.

“Sorry? I don’t follow.”

“The year six. The action off St. Domingo. A chap could sail into the Med or the West Indies and make his fortune. Like that,” he said, snapping his fingers.

“Aye, and he could catch a bullet just as easy,” Mr. Blanky said.

Looking somewhat chastened, Fitzjames said, “Naturally. Were you at sea then?”

“No. But Francis were,” Blanky said.

Hearing his name, Crozier looked up. “The year six? No. But my first voyage wasn’t long after that, on the Hamadryad. Glory doesn’t come so handily to a middie. I spent the first year terribly homesick.”

“You were in the American war, though, if I remember, sir?” Little said.

“The end of it, yes. And I was hardly in it. I was in the South Pacific when the war ended. I did meet John Adams and his Tahitian ladies.”

“Who’s John Adams when he’s at home then?” Blanky asked. Crozier did wish he’d be a bit more formal in company, sometimes.

“Sole survivor of the infamous HMS Bounty. He lived on Pitcairn. A nasty little rock, but Adams peopled it well enough,” Crozier said with a grin. “But that’s a story for another time. We’re getting off course.”

“Not quite to Pitcairn, but yes, sir,” Bridgens said. 

Crozier broke off a shard of his chocolate and put it in his mouth. It was cold and slightly white with age, but it melted nicely in his mouth. He looked over at Fitzjames who glanced away quickly as if he’d been staring at him. 

“If Wentworth first came to Somerset in the year six, and it is eight years later, than the story takes place in…” Bridgens trailed off in schoolmaster fashion, waiting for someone to fill in the answer.

“1814?” Thomas Hartnell said tentatively.

Bridgens smiled and said, “Yes, Mr. Hartnell. Does anyone know what happened in 1814 that might have affected the naval characters in the novel?”

There was an uncomfortable silence in the room and the Erebus groaned in the grip of the ice.

Bridgens looked at Peglar. “Do you know Harry?”

“The Treaty of...well, I can’t remember the name off hand, but it ended with Napoleon in exile.”

“The Treaty of Paris,” Le Vesconte said with an air of quiet triumph.

“Of course. It makes sense they would all be ashore then,” Fitzjames said, nodding.

+++

After the society meeting, Crozier sat in the Great cabin of Erebus, waiting for Fitzjames to return with his book. What could be keeping the man? He’d been in his cabin for ten minutes. Perhaps the book was misplaced and Crozier would be forced to walk back to Erebus. Hedges and Hartnell were with the marines, reading the next five chapters after Hedges revealed that he, too, had been brought up to read aloud. The Marines had often enjoyed his readings of bawdy poetry from penny publications. Tom Hartnell had confessed that he had not absorbed much of the first five chapters and Francis felt somewhat relieved to hear that he wasn’t the only one who had struggled.

Francis heard Fitzjames approaching at last, and he stood to offer him the seat nearest the stove.

“Sit, Francis. You are comfortable where you are.”

Francis stood stock still and gaped at Fitzjames, who was clad in a long, flowing green silk dressing gown with a crimson dragon emblazoned on the back, its tail and claws extending half-way down to the flared sleeves. The gown was trimmed in black and had silk frogs that kept it clasped at Fitzjames' breast. 

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” was all Crozier could manage.

“You look dazed, Francis. Are you unwell?”

Crozier shook his head, poleaxed. 

“James.”

“Francis.”

“James, what in the name..” He could think of nothing. “What have you got on?”

“Oh, this?” Fitzjames said, smoothing a long finger over the sleeve with a graceful flick, “a trifle impractical for the Arctic, I admit, but it has sentimental value. I brought it back from the Orient. It does have the advantage of being highly portable. It hardly weighs a thing.” 

“I don’t doubt it,” Crozier managed.

“Are you going to stand there all night, Francis?”

Crozier groaned almost imperceptibly and sat down. “I suppose not. You have every right to be comfortable on your own ship.”

“I appear to have made you uncomfortable, in doing so.”

“Me? Uncomfortable? It takes more than…” Crozier stammered at a loss. “Nevermind me, James.”

Crozier thought he hadn’t missed whiskey this much in weeks. He had a terrible thirst. It was very warm in the cabin. He unbuttoned a third button on his tunic, to show that he could be a good sport about things.

“Do you often…” Crozier started.

“Often what?”

“Well, is this your usual habit?”

“Only when it’s warm enough, and tonight it is. And I am feeling in rather high spirits. I credit the literary meeting. It went off very well, don’t you think?”

“Oh, ay,” Crozier said. “Very well indeed.”

“And we learned something about the young Francis Crozier in the bargain. That was my favorite part.”

“Pffft,” Crozier said. “Nonsense.”

“I would very much like to hear the whole tale of your adventure with John Adams and the Tahitian ladies.”

“You make it sound a lot racier than it was.”

“Did you not say that the man peopled Pitcairn Island, er, single-handed?”

“He did. Over many years. And he was well past that sort of thing when we met him.”

“As far as you know.”

“Yes, I suppose,” Francis laughed. “At any rate, there’s not much to the story. We should get on with the next chapters.”

“I’m not sure Jane Austen can compete with the image of young Francis, with bare shoulders freckling in the sun and a Tahitian beauty on each arm.”

Crozier chanced a look at him, met his eye, despite what it cost him in blushes. Fitzjames was serious though, Crozier swore he could detect a smile twitching around the ends of his lips.

“You are a complete fantasist, James.”

“I have to be. ‘Bird shit island’ needs all the help it can get.”

Francis chuckled. If James could admit to his stories being embellished, the least he could do was comply by giving the man what he’d asked for. “If you must know, it was a very ill fitting midshipman’s uniform. And it was more likely to be spots than freckles in those days.”

“And the Tahitian beauties?”

“There was only one and she was in her sixties, easily.”

“Was that so hard?”

Crozier shook his head. “Just read the blasted book, James.” 

“Alright, Francis. No need to get flustered.”

“I’m not flustered.”

“You’re blushing like a maid, Francis.”

“Well, it’s no wonder, the way you carry on, James.”

Fitzjames smirked and picked up the book and opened it to where they left off. His place in the book was marked with a piece of paper, folded into thirds. Francis had noted him removing and replacing the paper carefully each time he read.

Fitzjames began to read and Francis kept his eyes low, still feeling embarrassed. He noticed with some amusement that James had kept his woolen drawers on. He could see the white wool peeking out below the green silk. 

He had read several pages before Crozier had the courage to raise his head to confront the sight of the green silk flowing over the broad width of James’s shoulders, parting near his clavicle. The skin on James’s neck was as white as a new china cup against the black trim of the gown. Crozier lost the meaning of the words that Fitzjames was speaking and heard only the melodious shape of them in his mind, the sinuous shift of his voice to a higher register when he imitated Mary Musgrove. It was an unsettling effect to hear such high notes from that throat, with its adam’s apple bobbing along. 

Crozier was stirred by the memory of Sophia’s blue lapis beads against her pale throat. He had felt the soft give of her neck beneath his fingers as he put them on her, the warmth and scent of her skin as he kissed her nape delicately. Fitzjames read on, turning a page, and Crozier noted the same hue of skin, the same smoothness of flesh. He unbuttoned a fourth button on his tunic. By Christ, it was hotter than blazes in the room. 

The time came for the Crofts to take possession of the Elliot home, and Crozier again returned to Anne’s corner when she suffered upon hearing that the Admiral’s brother-in-law was lately married. A few sentences later, the author released him from agony and he breathed a sigh of relief for Anne when he heard that it was the curate who was married, not Captain Wentworth. 

It was silly to be so distressed on her behalf, and yet Crozier could remember similar instances in his own life, straining for the merest mention of James Ross’s name among a party of officers, expecting to hear at every occasion that he had married He had once believed, naively so it seemed now, that he and Ross would always return to the Arctic together. After Ross’s engagement, he and Miss Cracroft — both full of unrequited affection for the man — found themselves together, swimming naked in Van Dieman’s Land. And afterward, he had proposed to save her reputation. It was beyond him now, of course; he would never have her, now that Franklin was lost, and Ross would probably never travel with him again after this failure. And yet, like Anne Elliot, he longed to hear news of them both, to know how she managed with Lady Jane, what Ross’s latest baby was named and whether the child looked like its father. He had bigger worries, of course, but they were never far from his mind, the loves of his life. 

+++

Mornings were in some respects easier since his illness: the first cup of tea less destructive than the first glass of whiskey. But sobriety had its drawbacks as well. Memories which he’d managed to keep at bay with drink came striding back in. The vision of kissing Miss Cracoft’s neck, which he’d had the evening before, was followed by the remembrance of a conversation they’d had in which she’d told him that she wanted quiet and a home and a husband who wasn’t thousands of miles away, in fact or in his head. He had argued with her, of course, said he wanted only to be there with her, but it had been a lie and she had known it.

He lay back in the chair as Jopson shaved him and let his mind drift away from the past to the present. James was probably at that moment being shaved by Mr. Hoar. He pictured the razor, raising the white foam from the skin beneath it. Pictured himself kissing that spot, the feel of the smooth, firm skin, of James’s warmth and scent. It was not a shock. It had been lurking there beneath the surface of his mind for some time. Now that he was aware of it he would be on guard against it. He was not a midshipman anymore and this was not his first one-sided pash. 

Jopson was just tipping out the shaving basin when Mr. Blanky knocked at his door.

“I’m just here to say that I’m going to have to beg off the command meeting today, Francis. Doctor’s orders.”

“Your leg?” Francis asked, his heart sinking. The reminder of Blanky’s injury was never far from his mind, nor his guilt over it. 

“Ay, it’s split open again. Goodsir says I’ve been on it too much. I tried to remind him that the two mile I walk a day is a trifle to the 800 I’ll have to walk soon enough.”

“There’ll be time enough to build up your stamina. You do too much, Thomas.”

“You sound like Goodsir.”

“That’s because we’re both right.”

“I’ll not ride in a sledge, Francis. I’ve told thee.”

“You’ll ride in a sledge if I order you to, Tom. Now get out of here.”

“Aye, I’m going. But I want to ask if you’ll drop by and fill me in on the Society meeting as well.”

“I will. Though you’ll probably not miss much.”

“I noticed you stayed late on Erebus again last night.”

“I came back with Dr. Goodsir. He doesn’t like to walk on his own.”

“I don’t blame him. He’s a sensible man. Only, I could have sworn I heard something about you staying with Fitzjames.”

“Yes. We were reading _Persuasion_. Or, rather, James was. A lovely voice he has.”

“I’ve no doubt,” Blanky said with a smirk.

“What?!” 

“Nothing. It’s just, well, there’s talk.”

“What talk?” Crozier asked, looking for a sign that he was teasing. His face was serious, his tone even.

“About Fitzjames. They say he fancies you.”

“Utter nonsense. Shite," Francis sputtered."Ship’s gossip. A bunch of ladies prattling over their tea.”

“Anyway, will you be staying late again? Or can I expect you to drop by before supper?”

Crozier shot him a warning look before answering: “I’ll be late again.”

“Figures.”

“You sound jealous, Tom,” Crozier said, narrowing his eyes to slits..

“Oh I am. Him and his lovely voice!” Blanky said, switching to a fair impression of Crozier’s accent.

“Shut up or I swear to Christ I’ll--” Crozier picked up the towel Jopson had used to wipe his face and threatened Blanky with it.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Francis,” Blanky said, pointing to his wooden leg, with an exaggerated pitiful face.

It had been a joke, but it had landed like a hammer blow. “Oh, I am Tom. Thoroughly ashamed. At all times, believe it or not. But not about this." Crozier watched Blanky’s expression change, soften briefly before resuming the arch look. “Not about _Persuasion_. I’m trying to cheer up a friend and that’s all there is to it.”

“Oh, ay, I know. You’ll cheer him up, I’m sure,” Blanky said with a leering grin. It was over, Francis was forgiven. They were on solid ground again.

“Get out, Tom. I mean it!” Crozier said, suppressing a smile.

Blanky left Crozier to wonder about the rumor. Could it be? Surely it was just a one-sided pash? It seemed ridiculous. James was the head boy. Popular, handsome. Crozier was the spotty midshipman whose trousers were always too short. It didn’t work that way then. And now? James, the man with the anecdotes and the finest head of hair in the navy? What would he be doing taking a fancy to a burned out old lushington like Francis Crozier? No. It was nonsense. Worse than nonsense. He’d have to be doubly on guard now. He’d hate to do anything to embarrass James.

+++

The second meeting of the Terebus Literary Society did not go as smoothly as the first. It started well enough, with Peglar the star pupil making a canny observation about the peace alluded to in the previous day’s discussion being talked of by Admiral Croft and his wife Sophia. Crozier started again at the name, and he noticed James watching him with a look like concern on his face. 

Shortly afterward, James gave forth with his opinion that Captain Wentworth was well out of the Elliot family, and that he happened to agree with Admiral Croft’s opinion that he should settle with Louisa Musgrove as soon as possible.

Crozier could hold his tongue no longer.

“Are you quite serious, James? Are we reading the same book? Captain Wentworth through with Anne Elliot? Did he not just, at the end of the walk, clear the hedge with the express purpose of securing a ride in the gig for Anne? Why do you think he did that? So he could hand her into the carriage himself, of course!”

“He probably took no notice of it. He’d been catching Louisa Musgrove in his arms all day.”

“He’s not in love with Louisa. Do you not think handing his one-time betrothed into the carriage might awaken something in him?”

“Francis, you’re reading too much into one gesture.”

“You’re reading too little!” Crozier huffed.

“I’m the one reading it to you, Francis,” James said in a heated, lower tone between gritted teeth. 

“And I’m the one listening! It was far from a single gesture. Do you not recall when Wentworth removed the quarrelsome child from around Anne’s neck? Another intimacy.”

“Perhaps you are too much in Anne’s corner to see it rationally. From his point of view, he was merely being practical and helpful.”

“How you can be so blind and unsympathetic to her, is beyond me.”

“Oh, I forget Francis. You are Anne Elliot.”

“If by that remark you mean that her struggles are similar to my own, I completely agree.”

At that moment Crozier looked around the table and noticed all eyes on him. Henry Le Vesconte coughed slightly, or perhaps he stifled a laugh. He wished Mr. Blanky was there. Then he would see how little there was to the ridiculous notion that James fancied him. And as for his one-sided pash, he felt it evaporate as he realized that James Fitzjames had no notion of romantic love whatsoever. To want Wentworth to move on? Move on to what? The Musgrove girls. Interchangeable characters...poor Admiral Croft couldn’t even tell them apart!

“Well, yes, gentlemen,” Bridgens said into the uncomfortable silence. “Did anyone catch Miss Eliott’s allusion to autumnal poetry? It’s interesting, is it not, that she did not provide a specific quotation, but let the reader supply their own. Perhaps we might begin by reflecting on our own favorites in that quarter.”

**Wild to see Lyme**

Crozier paced the length of the Erebus great cabin, attempting to decide whether or not to return to Terror with the others or give his excuses to James before he left. Hartnell and Hedges were inquiring of Dr. Goodsir if he was ready to go back. Little was sitting with his fellow lieutenants in the ward room, drinking a warming glass of port.

James emerged at last, thankfully only in the jumper and waistcoat he often wore in the evenings. There was to be no repeat of the previous evening’s informality which would have made things more difficult.

“I need to head back to Terror. I’m going to have to skip the reading for this evening.”

“Is there an emergency?”

“No, but Mr. Blanky was not up to the walk today and I want to give him a report of the command meeting without interrupting his rest.”

“Is that all, Francis?”

“Of course. It’s enough.”

“Yes, it’s enough of an excuse. I thought perhaps it had something to do with our disagreement at the meeting today.”

“I did not come here to argue you out of your opinions, wrong-headed as they are,” he said, managing a smile.

“No, of course not,” James said with a laugh. “You can’t order me to like Captain Wentworth, so you’ll take yourself away from my company. Deny yourself the pleasure of hearing me read the next chapters.”

Crozier managed to not roll his eyes at James’s boastfulness about his own voice. Every indication was that he was indeed in love with the sound of it. “Is it Captain Wentworth you dislike, or Miss Elliot?” he asked.

“I have no doubt Miss Elliot is as worthy as the author claims. And I do not dislike Wentworth; on the contrary, I congratulate him on his tastes. Is it wrong for a fellow to want someone who will have him for who he is without having to change his whole life?”

“So you think they would make each other unhappy?”

“I do. Very much so. I think Lady Russell a very sensible person. She saw what Anne could not: the long periods away, the uncertainty of his ever gaining a promotion.”

“You are judging the state of lieutenants now. In wartime, promotion was easier, as you said.”

“And as your Mr. Blanky said, death was easier too.”

 _My_ Mr. Blanky? Crozier thought. That seemed a bit presumptuous. But he let it go and said only, “If we agree to disagree, perhaps I could be persuaded to stay for an hour or two.”

“I promise not to bring it up again. We should carry on with the story, anyway. We may both change our minds. Who knows, by the end of today’s reading we may be in complete agreement.”

“Or we may be at each other’s throats worse than ever,” Crozier said, removing his scarf and hat and ruffling his hair with his hand. The image of being at James’s throat in a very different way returned to him as he undid the top buttons of his tunic, leaving him longing once more for a drink. 

“Have a seat, and we shall see if you were right that the mere act of handing Anne into a carriage was enough to rekindle old feelings in Captain Wentworth.”

Fitzjames arrived at the introduction of a new set of sea-faring characters: Captain Harville, described as Wentworth’s wounded friend in Lyme, Harville’s wife, and his particular friend, Captain Benwick. The latter’s recent loss of his fiancee, Fanny Harville, was read with caution by James, who paused when Benwick’s temper was described as “uniting very strong feelings with quiet, serious, and retiring manners.”

Francis wondered if James would put this poetic fellow forward as an alternative to Wentworth. He might suit better, but should Anne not have her heart’s desire? Should her wishes always be subject to the whims of others?

As James read on about the Harville’s home and Anne’s first meeting there, Francis was struck by the line, “There was so much attachment to Captain Wentworth in all this, and such a bewitching charm in a degree of hospitality so uncommon, so unlike the usual style of give-and-take invitations, and dinners of formality and display, that Anne felt her spirits not likely to be benefited by an increasing acquaintance among his brother-officers. ‘These would have been all my friends,’ was her thought; and she had to struggle against a great tendency to lowness.”

Francis stood up from his seat and began to pace about the room, all thoughts of Benwick beyond him. To feel a loss a thousand times, in a thousand small ways. _These would have been all my friends_. How true it was that grief can come and go, with fresh pain and fresh revelations in the most unexpected places. James gradually slowed his reading, his attention being divided between the page and Francis’s restless movements about the room. 

James soon stopped altogether and said, “Francis, will you sit down? It’s very difficult to focus on reading when you’re...Francis? Are you alright?”

Upon hearing his name a second time — this time with some greater degree of concern attached — Crozier stopped pacing and did his best to pull himself together before he turned and faced James. He heard movement behind him and felt James’s hand on his shoulder, turning him round. “Francis, why don’t you answer?”

“Must you keep it so infernally hot in here?” Crozier snapped, unable to think of anything better to explain his disquiet. 

“You could always take off your tunic,” James said quietly. Crozier swore he could see the edges of his mouth beginning to curl into a smile.

Crozier began to work at the buttons on his tunic, managing the first two fumbling, but by the third felt the tremor in his hands which had plagued him intermittently since his illness. He pressed his fingers flat against the wool of his waistcoat, willing them to be still.

“May I?” James asked, and reached down and undid the final button smoothly. Francis turned and James helped him out of the tunic, smoothing the fabric of his shirt with a steward’s motion, but with a much firmer, slower touch than Jopson would have used. 

“What happy and what mournful hours, since last I skimmed the smooth thin stone along thy breast,” 2 James said, running his hand along Crozier’s arm. 

“What’s that?”

“Coleridge.”

Crozier grunted and said, “Perhaps you’re like this Benwick fellow after all.”

James shook his head. “Are you going to recommend a greater allowance of prose in my daily study?”

“Something like that. At least carry on reading the book, James,” he said softly, almost pleadingly.

“I will. But Francis, did you dress for the occasion, knowing you’d look every inch the Regency gentleman?”

Crozier shook his head, confused.

“This...artifact. Linen worn as smooth as a stone from the River Otter,” James said, rolling the cloth between his fingers. Francis had often noticed James’s hands. Untroubled by work as they were, he’d often mentally derided them, but now he noticed their elegance and the strength in the long fingers. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, James,” Crozier said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Your shirt, man. It must be twenty years old if it’s a day.”

“It’s a good shirt. My mother made it.”

“When you were a middie?” James asked, smiling. 

“Upon my promotion to Lieutenant. It was cut from a navy pattern,” he said, defensively. He noticed that James was still standing close, still holding his shirt between his long fingers. Crozier dipped his head, staring down at them. For a dizzying moment he wasn’t sure what would happen; he felt his body sway as if the ship were freed from the ice or as if he were drunk. The latter was more familiar and he regained his equilibrium at last.

“No doubt the same one Wentworth’s sister used for his shirt,” James said. The words were mocking, but the tone was not. It was almost admiring.

“Go back to the book, James,” Crozier said, his voice cracking. 

James sat down and Crozier found his way back to his chair. He remembered the day that Sophia Cracroft had come to his rooms with her uncle, who proceeded to leave them alone for an hour. They had found him alone in his shirt sleeves, writing to his friend James Clark Ross. Sophia had teased him as well but as prelude to an intimacy, pulling him into a kiss as soon as her uncle was safely away, untucking Francis’s linen, using her soft, strong hand to rouse his cock. It was a memory he kept for the darkness of his bunk where he did his best to recreate the moment with his own callused hand. He pushed it away at once, but it had happened again. 

Louisa Musgrove fell on the cobb. Wentworth and Benwick panicked and Anne was proved to be the most sensible of the group as the end of the first volume came to a close. James read and Francis was swept up again by Miss Austen’s tale, with barely a thought of their earlier conversation about his shirt.

+++

Only after he had gathered up Little, Goodsir, and Hedges for the walk back to Terror, and they were out on the ice in the bracing air with only the lantern to expose his flushed cheeks, was Crozier at liberty to give his mind over to James Fitzjames and his curious behavior. If he didn’t know better, he would think James was trying to seduce him. Perhaps it was all a game and James would pull away at the last second in triumph. Or wait until afterward, like Sophia, and laugh at his quaint notions of propriety and reputation. 

He would never have fallen in love with Sophia had they not been thrown together by mutual disappointment over Ross’s engagement. He wondered, not for the first time, if her passion that day in his rooms was spurred on by the fact that he’d been writing to Ross, as he’d read her a few lines of the letter. 

Desire was strange, but James Fitzjames was most puzzling of all with his Coleridge and his silk kimono. Maybe he was just decadent, maybe he was corrupt as the rumors of him had hinted. The unsavory promotions, the strange habits and tastes, the mud thrown by petty, jealous men among whom Francis no longer counted himself. No matter James’s intentions, Francis knew he must remain wary and cautious. The journey yet ahead of them, the walk out, would be harder if he and James were at odds. He would do his best to remain James’s friend, despite this odd behavior.

The snow fell, the wind whipped the weightless flakes across the icy ground in swirling, snaking patterns that brought to mind dragons. Hedges was off to read to his fellow Marines, Little to the wardroom, and Francis to his cold, lonely quarters. Even Jopson had gone to the common room. All over the ship, it seemed everyone had companionship. Francis was used to his solitude. Franklin had accused him of using it to indulge his vices, which had been true enough at the time. But his vices were as far away as Polaris and the dragons on James’s kimono sleeves. He was in no danger from Fitzjames after all. He was certain that in his sobriety, he would be able to restrain himself whenever necessary. 

But during the long dark night in his bunk, he was sure he would think of Sophia Cracroft no more.

+++

Bridgens brought the literary meeting to order with the question: “And what of Miss Musgrove’s fall? Who is to blame and how is it accountable that Anne Elliot should be the only one competent to deal with the accident?”

The room was split pretty evenly between two schools of thought: on one hand were those who felt that the sailors were unused to women and felt panicked when one came to harm; and the other which held that Wentworth and Benwick had succumbed to a kind of nervous stupor that they had sometimes seen in battles at sea. The oldest among them, those that had been in shooting wars, had witnessed the paralyzing condition first hand. There was a third theory, the most vocal proponent being Mr. Honey, that said that as a woman wrote the book, she was taking her revenge at men for always writing women as useless and fainting in any kind of trouble.

“Yes, but Henrietta _did_ faint and Mary was entirely useless. So it’s not merely a matter of getting revenge on men,” Fitzjames argued. “Besides, I have seen men lose their wits in battle.”

Crozier crossed his fingers under the table, hoping that James was not going to tell the story of getting shot again.

“We have seen worse than combat, James,” Crozier said. ”Everyone on this expedition has witnessed horrors beyond the most pitched battles. We have seen the greatest valor and sluggish incompetence in equal measure.” 

As soon as he’d said it, he regretted it. They had been very close to forgetting, for a few hours each day at least, the horrors of carnivale and the creature. He had set them back.

“Any road, Benwick can be forgiven for being in a state of grief to begin with,” Mr. Blanky said. Francis was grateful for his intervention. ”Wentworth is a different matter, but I suppose his own feeling of guilt in the case accounts for his reaction.” 3

It was generally agreed that this was a sensible addition to the discussion, and Bridgens moved on to the allusion to a Matthew Prior poem 4 that most had missed. No one but Bridgens had ever heard of _Henry and Emma_ , but Francis remembered the ballad upon which it was based. He was trying to recall the tune as Bridgens read the amorous poem.

+++

**Put down in Camden Place**

That evening, Crozier found Fitzjames in the Erebus great cabin, still in his tunic with a tea cup and his copy of _Persuasion_. 

“Shall we retire to your cabin?” Crozier asked.

“I’m not sure I’m up to it this evening.”

“Oh, fair enough. Of course. I’ll be heading back to Terror, then.”

James grunted a reply. That seemed unlike him; still, Crozier was about to turn and leave when James sighed deeply.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. Maybe I’m coming down with something. I feel a little sluggish,” James said, emphasizing the last word. 

“James.”

“Yes, Francis?”

“You do understand that I was speaking of myself at the meeting when I said ‘sluggish incompetence?’”

“It hadn’t occurred to me.”

“Well, I was. Prior to my illness, I was hardly in a fit state. You tried to warn me.”

“Yes, well, you were right, weren’t you? We’re not going anywhere,” James said, putting down his empty teacup with a click on the saucer. Francis noticed that not only was it empty, it was curiously clean-looking as well.

“We are going somewhere very soon. I needn’t tell you that again, surely?”

“What do you mean bringing that up at the literary meeting? Your illness. Why drag it up again?”

“I was trying to make a point.”

“Self flagellation, Francis. It’s your specialty.”

Crozier was stung by his words. He considered fleeing back to Terror, but then he thought of all the times James had endured his unpleasant company, all the times Franklin had too, to try to draw him out.

“I was in no fit state. I know that now. Sometimes I think I can never apologize enough, never make amends,” Francis said. He would lower himself. Expose his throat. James would not go for the jugular.

“Did you think you were the only person on this expedition to know what it’s like to be in love with someone with no hope of a return?”

This was not at all the answer Francis had expected. “You, James? I did not know. I’m sorry.”

“No, you wouldn’t. You were too busy feeling sorry for yourself.”

“I was. I was. I know it.” His throat constricted around the words. Dangerous waters, these. He changed tack, like the good sailor he was. “Do you want to talk about it, now?” Francis asked.

“No. Not with you, anyway.”

“I understand. I’ve done something to upset you. I think it must just be a misunderstanding though. I didn’t intend--”

“You haven’t done anything. It’s me.”

“James, what’s got into you? What do you have here?” Francis asked, and picked up the teacup, sniffing it. Gin. Christ. He put the saucer down again.

“James.”

“Yes, Francis?”

“Stand up.”

“Why?”

“I’m ordering you to stand up, Captain Fitzjames.”

James sighed again and stood, looking at Francis through a heavy troubled brow. Francis embraced him, pulling him into a tight hug. He buried his face in James’s tunic, breathed in the scent of coal smoke and juniper. Warmth flooded across his body where it connected with James. 

James groaned a bit and Francis pulled back.

“What?”

“Sorry, I’m morbing on like this.”

“Nonsense,” Francis said, giving him a thumping pat on the shoulder of his tunic. “You had enough of me before I was ill.” They sat down. Francis poked a finger into James’s arm. “Why don’t you read a bit of the book, eh?”

“Alright, Francis,” James said with a weak smile. Francis let his hand come to a rest on the arm of James’s chair. James covered Francis’s hand with his own, exerting a warm, steady pressure. Francis wondered if he had gone too far. He’d meant to comfort as a friend, but James was in low spirits and not entirely sober. After a moment, James picked up the book and Francis took his hand away. He felt the loss of James’s touch exceedingly. If nothing else, the warmth was blissful. But of course there was more to it than that. He closed his eyes and listened to James voice, as rich as ever, his breath perfuming the air with juniper. Francis’s stomach turned. Gin.

The action of the novel now moved to Bath and the introduction of Cousin Elliot and his opinions on “good company.” Francis decided that he agreed with Anne Elliot, that her cousin was altogether too perfect to be quite genuine. 

James paused in his reading and poured clear, steaming liquid from a teapot into his teacup.

“This doesn’t bother you, does it? The hot gin?”

“It does actually. Sorry. My father used to drink gin. I can’t stomach the smell of it, never could.”

James picked up the teacup and stood. He crossed the room, opened his seat of ease, and dumped out the gin.

“That wasn’t necessary.”

“Nonsense. Of course it was. I wish I would have known, I would not have subjected you to it. It’s just the only spirits available since-”

“I understand. It’s not the principal of it that bothers me. I know that...is my own problem. It’s really only the smell.”

James sat back down and began reading where he’d left off. “There are several odd-looking men walking about here, who, I am told, are sailors,” he read. “The Crofts will associate with them."

Francis chuckled at Sir Walter’s presumption. He was right, of course, the Crofts found their fellow sailors, like mercury finds itself in the glass of the thermometer.

**Gout and Decrepitude**

At the meeting the next day the big news was Louisa’s preference for Captain Benwick over Captain Wentworth, and how this boded for Anne Elliot. Again the room was divided on the question, with Lieutenant Little addressing the table on behalf of his side. “This Benwick seems very fast to forget his dead fiance.” Others nodded in agreement. 

Francis listened as Benwick’s character was slandered as being flighty, melodramatic ,and even inconstant. Even Mr. Bridgens, who normally kept out of these things, was heard to say that given the cult of sensibility that was popular at the time, Benwick and Louisa could be seen as representing those that would be fashionably gloomy for the sake of being in the current style. He brought up the custom of young ladies doing memorial needlepoints for their dead relatives, sometimes having to dip back several generations to find a case sufficiently sad.

Mr. Peglar pointed out the cold way that Mrs. Musgrove’s grief for her son was described, in which she was nearly mocked by the narrator for being sad about her son’s death.

“That made me really angry,” Tom Hartnell said. He rarely spoke at the meetings and all eyes turned to him. “I don’t care how worthless Dick Musgrove was, he should have someone to grieve for him.” 

Francis wasn’t sure he remembered what they were talking about. He wondered if the passage had been read on the evening when James was wearing the green dressing gown. 

“My brother John is gone two years last month, “ Hartnell said. “Our mum don’t even know,” he added, clearing his throat again, wiping his face.

Francis thought of the letter he had written to Mrs. Hartnell. He kept it in a folder with similar letters: to Mrs. Graham Gore; to the parents of Evans, the ship’s boy; to Sophia and Lady Jane. 

“No one would ever think of John as worthless, Tom,” Mr. Blanky said. “You mustn’t think that. But we’ve all known men like Dick Musgrove. The service is full of them.”

“Ay, but they all deserve to have someone to grieve for them as well,” Francis said. 

“I’d like to know what Captain Wentworth really thought about Dick Musgrove,” Mr. Honey said. “We only have Anne’s guess based on his look at the time.”

“Maybe she misinterpreted his being uncomfortable in the situation, because it would be dashed awkward to have to comfort your girl’s mum like that, out of the blue,” Lt. Le Vesconte said.

“Getting back to the topic of Mr. Benwick’s grief, then,” Mr. Bridgens said, “do you think it excessive, appropriate, not enough?” 

“It is both excessive and not enough,” Mr. Little said. “On one hand, he is spoken of as possibly doing harm to himself; on the other, he gets over it as soon as Louisa Musgrove falls his way, so to speak.”

“But that doesn’t mean his feelings aren’t genuine on both accounts,” Fitzjames said. “People react differently. Widows are given a year to grieve. That is considered enough. For many that isn’t enough. For others, a few weeks might be sufficient. It depends on the circumstances.”

“Ay, and as Anne says, Benwick is a young man,” Francis said. “He will recover. And wouldn’t Harville’s sister want him to be happy? Would she want him to throw away his life in mourning? We have all of us faced grief on this expedition. None of us has been left untouched by it. We carry it with us. But would the dead want us to mourn for them, forever? To give up our lives to it?”

“The Captain’s right on this. If John were here, he wouldn’t want me to throw away my life in mourning. That weren’t John.” 

“Yes,” Mr. Bridgens said with a chastened sniffle. “Your point is well taken.”

The conversation turned to happier events in the novel: the meeting at Mullins between Wentworth and Anne, with Anne on the arm of handsome Mr. Elliot and Captain. Wentworth unable to offer the services of his new umbrella. Francis had begun to dislike and distrust cousin Elliot and this latest incident made him more convinced than ever that Wentworth was not out of danger from Anne. 

That evening, James appeared on time and sober, dressed in his jumper and waistcoat. He began the reading without saying much, ordering the customary tea for himself and Francis. After a few pages, Francis stopped him and confessed, “Before we go too far in this chapter, can we go back and read the section we were discussing today, about Dick Musgrove?”

“Certainly, Francis, only give me a minute to find it.”

“Thank you, James. I confess, I did not remember the passage. I must have been distracted when you read it.”

James looked at Francis with a smirk, thumbing through _Persuasion_ without a word.

“Here is the offending passage: ‘Captain Wentworth should be allowed some credit for the self-command with which he attended to her large fat sighings over the destiny of a son, whom alive nobody had cared for.’”

“I think I know what Captain Wentworth was feeling. Complete mortification. I did not say so at the meeting, in mixed company as it were, but to have to perform that most sacred of offices, on the spot, with little or no recollection of the fellow, is not to be envied. Anne was right to credit him with self-command.”

“Anne was right, Anne was right,” Fitzjames said in a mocking tone. “You’ll never change your tune. Even when she is entirely small-minded and unfeeling, you will defend her.”

“I merely think she was correct in observing that it took a great deal of self-command to attend to Mrs. Musgrove.”

“What I want to know is what poor Dick Musgrove ever did to Anne Elliot to make her hate him so.”

When Francis gave no look of recognition, James backed up and re-read most of the chapter, which included all the details of Dick Musgrove and also contained a debate about the appropriateness of ladies on board a ship. 

“Finding no way to defend Anne’s character further, Francis changed the subject. “What do you think of ladies on a ship, James? Is Mrs. Croft correct in her opinion that they can be comfortable enough on a Ship of the Line?”

“You sound like Mr. Bridgens!”

“And you are avoiding my question.”

“Fair enough. I think for Admirals and their wives it is probably a fine thing. For everyone else, it may be a misery.”

“Well I’ll be.”

“What?”

“We actually agree on something. I often thought Lady Jane would have liked to have sailed with us, just to make sure her husband made no decisions without consulting her.”

James laughed. “You may be right, Francis. You knew them both better than I did. But are you not rather like Anne Elliot in your harsh opinion of the woman?”

“How so?”

“She could not help her nature, anymore than you and I can help ours. And Sir John must have loved her.”

“Oh, indeed. I saw no evidence to the contrary. You have pinned me again. I am more Anne Elliot than I had imagined possible.”

“In exchange for that confession, I will tell you that my heart was in my throat for you today, Francis. When young Hartnell spoke up.”

“Yes, that was awful. Thank God for Mr. Blanky. I had no voice to speak.”

“I know. I could see it. You were struck by it.”

“I was. There is much in this book to remind us of grief. It seems to be a meditation on the different ways in which people suffer. I had never imagined it would be like this when we started.”

James nodded. They were quiet a while, listening to the faint hiss of the radiator. Francis couldn’t remember James ever this silent. Even in grief he had been noisy. He was grateful for it. James eventually returned to the day’s reading. Afterward, Francis stood to leave and James rose from his chair as well. 

“Goodnight, Francis,” he said, extending his hand. Francis looked at the long, elegant fingers extended in a gesture of honest friendship. He took hold of the hand, and thinking of nothing so much as the quiet sympathy they had experienced that evening, pressed it to his heart.

“Goodnight, James,” he said, and turned to leave.

**A Man Does Not Recover from Such Devotion**

The next morning while Jopson was shaving him, the steward mentioned that he’d been picking up bits and pieces of the novel which was now being read all over the ship. Francis asked how he liked it.

“Very well, sir, we are all on pins and needles. When Anne spotted Captain Wentworth on the street and Lady Russell only saw curtains in a shop window, Mr Crispe burst out with, ‘Hang Lady Russell.’”

“That was a very vexing scene. I can relate to Mr. Crispe’s feelings exactly and confess to thinking something of the sort myself.”

“Who do you think Anne will end up with, sir?”

“Oh, I have no doubt she will end up with Captain Wentworth. This Cousin Elliot is not at all the thing.”

“I agree, sir, but it remains to be seen just how it will happen. The gulf between them seems so very wide.”

“All of that can change in an instant. And did you not think that, at the concert, Captain Wentworth was speaking as much of his attachment to Anne as he was of Benwick’s attachment to Harville’s sister?”

“I’m afraid we haven’t gotten to the concert yet. We all have our duties, and I don’t always get down to the common room in time to hear it being read,” Jopson said.

That afternoon at the command meeting, Francis sat next to James who placed his copy of _Persuasion_ on the table. It was next to Crozier’s notebook, which he used for recording meetings. Fitzjames had outlined passages of the novel and made notes.

While Le Vesconte read a report on the progress of emptying baggage for the walk out, Francis noticed that there was a piece of paper, folded into thirds, tucked inside his own notebook. He unfolded it and found that it was in James’s hand. 

**The Ballad of the Lost Explorers**

Tom Bowline

Within this cursed and broken ship  
our souls adrift on a sea of ice.  
Are we never to know the sweet drip  
Of a spring thaw? In winter’s grip  
We sit locked in darkness thrice  
Passed o’er by spring. This trip  
Must be our last, as death doth slip  
With ease through our unmended slice  
Of oblivion. Erebus around thee whip  
The snows of chaos while my love is strip’d  
Of rank, frozen in vice  
And torment. With steely resolve he will grip  
To hope of rescue. Though glory does slip  
Every moment further, it will entice  
Me to the last breath. Down we tip  
To lie forever, two Romeos in a wooden crypt  
To live without him after would not suffice  
His heart smashed to atoms  ;’mine merely chipped  
Our only home, this cursed and broken ship.

Francis folded the paper back as discreetly as possible. He was anxious to read the poem again, to understand its meaning, but he was afraid of drawing James’ attention. The meeting dragged on interminably and Francis thought of the underlined phrase, “smashed to atoms,” and remembered that he had once said something similar at a command meeting. He drank his tea miserably, longing for whiskey, praying for the end of the meeting, and when the last item of business had been discussed, Francis adjourned the group for a “head break.” When he felt confident that he might read the paper unseen, he unfolded it again. 

“Two Romeos in a wooden crypt.” Surely that could only mean one thing. 

He folded the paper and put it back in his notebook, wondering how it had gotten there. Had James wanted him to find it? It was possible that James had set it down on the table and Francis had picked it up by mistake. But no, it had been in his notebook. He hadn’t put it there. When James and the others returned, Francis was busily writing in his notebook. He didn’t look up but handed the paper to James and said, “I think this belongs to you.”

“Did you read it?”

Francis had not expected such directness. He looked up. James’ face was pinched and worried. 

“I did,” he said quietly. “I liked it very much. Though the meaning...perhaps we could discuss it later.”

“I’d like that,” James said, and sat down next to Francis on the bench.

The Society meeting that day was chiefly devoted to Mr. Elliot’s bad character as revealed by Mrs. Smith. Francis’s suspicions were borne out and he had some gratification in James saying at one point, “Francis, you alone have remained true to the cause of Captain Wentworth and Anne Elliot. You were right all along. As usual.”

It was a startling public admission and it brought a blush to Francis’ cheeks. He looked round the table and saw smiles and nods from his fellow readers. When he looked at James, he was met with a warm, shining eye. He had often heard James flatter Franklin. He had heard him praise his officers in an overly flowery way which sometimes bordered on unmasculine. Francis had disliked this tendency as he felt only ambition behind it. But now, what ambition could there be in it, except to know Francis better? And if what Francis thought about the poem was true, that it was a despairing love poem about he and James...He suddenly remembered the conversation on the evening when James had poured out the gin. He had mentioned being in love with no hope of return. He had imagined there to be a woman back home in the case, but suddenly it occurred to him that he might have been talking about someone else. These three facts braided together in his mind to form an unassailable cable of truth: James Fitzjames was in love with him. The idea made him tremble with excitement. He had spent so long pushing aside his attraction to his second that he’d never considered the possibility that he might not have to do so. 

**Overpowering Happiness**

Francis was in a state of agitation beyond bearing for the remainder of the meeting. He didn’t speak again. He dared not. It seemed to take an agonizingly long time for the others to clear the room and leave them alone. At last they’d gone, and Francis stood up and paced over to the stove, stirring the coals to give himself something to do. He cleared his throat nervously. James was sitting at the table, thumbing through _Persuasion_ , seemingly unbothered. Perhaps it was all in Francis’ mind and he was about to make a terrific fool of himself.

“James, you were going to talk to me about the meaning of the...the piece I found. A sonnet was it?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

“Villanelle, actually. But I thought we should finish reading _Persuasion_ first. If you like, we could retire to my quarters and sit more comfortably.”

“Yes, yes. I’d like that.” Francis was torn between relief at delaying the question and disappointment that he’d have to pluck up his courage to raise it again. James stood and gathered his papers. It seemed to Francis that he was taking his sweet time about it. 

James rang for Mr. Hoar and ordered tea for them both. Francis had had enough tea for a lifetime and hardly needed further stimulation, but he said nothing. He settled himself into his usual seat on the bench while Fitzjames disappeared into his bedchamber. He returned in the green dressing gown. He swept into the room and sat down at his usual place by the fire, crossing his legs languidly. From his vantage point, Francis could see that his legs were bare beneath the robe. It was warm enough, apparently, that he went without his woolen drawers.

James picked up the book and began to read: the Harvilles were in Bath for the wedding arrangements of Louisa Musgrove and Captain Benwick; Anne met them along with Captain Wentworth, and there ensued a debate about constancy, with Captain Harville lamenting Benwick’s forgetting his sister so soon after her death. Harville said that all of literature was evidence in the favor of women being the more inconstant sex, while Anne said that as long men held the pen they could say what they liked on the subject. Harville made an impassioned speech about sailors and their wives: 

_"if I could but make you comprehend what a man suffers when he takes a last look at his wife and children, and watches the boat that he has sent them off in, as long as it is in sight, and then turns away and says, 'God knows whether we ever meet again!' And then, if I could convey to you the glow of his soul when he does see them again.”_

Anne argued in turn: “ _All the privilege I claim for my own sex (it is not a very enviable one; you need not covet it), is that of loving longest, when existence or when hope is gone."_

Anne soon found the letter which Captain Wentworth had been writing while she was talking to Harville. It began, “You pierce my soul! I am half agony, half hope.” Francis drew breath sharply. James looked up for a moment with a half smile and continued reading. “For you alone, I think and plan. Have you not seen this?” 

Francis realized he had been wringing his hands ever since the letter began and, as it finished, he dropped them to his lap with a sigh. 

“A word, a look will be enough to decide whether I enter your father’s house this evening or never,” James finished, and then looked up. “Pretty dramatic stuff, eh?”

“Indeed. What a letter!” Francis cried. 

James read on, and as the couple came to an understanding, Francis began to hope that something similar might happen to him soon. It was painful to hear that Anne would have accepted Wentworth had he applied again a few years later, after he had his promotion and a few thousand pounds. Again, the similarity to his situation with Sophia -- his having done just that, only to be dealt a second humiliation — flashed across his mind. James saw it, too, and hurried on to finish the chapter. A few pages more and he’d done with the novel entirely. 

With the reprieve of reading over, Francis became agitated again. The more he squirmed on the bench, the more relaxed James seemed to be, allowing his dressing gown to fall open, revealing his pale throat and the hollow of his collarbone in the lamp light. 

“About this poem, then,” Francis said, tearing his eyes away from James’ body and fixing them firmly on his own boots.

“Did you like it?”

“Yes. I thought it very good. I don’t know about the form, the villanelle you called it?”

“Yes. Five quatrains of three lines, followed by a sixth of four lines.”

“Right. Er. I don’t know about that. But it was very good. The imagery very apt and the rhymes very true and natural. None of the torturous maneuvers you sometimes get when you sense a fellow is struggling to make it work out.”

“The rhymes had me by the hip, I’ll admit, but it’s a matter of being patient and waiting for the right words to come along. They are usually there hiding and require only a little teasing out.”

Francis nodded. He was at the end of his abilities to admire the form of the poem or even to follow this line of conversation, so he was forced to move on to the meaning. “I think it’s a very interesting subject. I suppose it’s all imagined then. A scenario, a little like ours. With...poetic license perhaps?”

“No poetic license at all. It was my plain, unvarnished situation and feeling. Still is.”

Again, Francis drew his breath sharply. “Let me get this straight. I am...I am referred to in the poem.”

“Yes,” James said, quirking an eyebrow at Francis. 

“I am...your love?” Francis asked, every muscle tensing in his stomach in anticipation of an inevitable drop.

James nodded. Francis’ heart leapt. “Good God, man. I had no idea. I thought you hated me.”

“Because you hated me,” James said, wincing.

“No, no, nothing of the kind. I admit to a dislike for a time, but that has long given way to admiration and…”

“And?”

“Oh bloody, hell, James. I’m no poet. But if you come here, I can show you.” 

James stood and walked over to Francis. He took even less care with his robe and now most of his torso was visible, and Francis shifted on the bench to accommodate the growing reaction in his trousers. He reached up and pulled James down into his lap, felt the warmth of him flood across his body, felt his own face burning with nerves and embarrassment. He wrapped his arms around him feeling the slide of silk beneath his hands. Francis pulled him close and kissed him, awkwardly at first. There were a lot of teeth and jaws to contend with. For all his feminine grace, James was wonderfully masculine up close. But Francis’ hands fumbled their way to the nape of his neck and entangled themselves in the silky hair there, tilting James’ mouth toward his own hungrily. His own breathing was heavy and James was making a little moaning sound, as he’d done when they’d embraced, but louder and more deliberate. It drove Francis a bit wild and he broke the kiss, gasping, and nipped at James’ neck, along his jaw and at his throat.

Meanwhile, James was far from idle, and his long, graceful fingers worked across Francis’ tunic, loosening buttons, pulling him to pieces, brass by brass. It was all going very fast and Francis could feel James’ response, every bit as eager as his own, through the thin green silk. 

Francis shifted James from one side of his lap to the other and Francis winced. The man was all angles and sharp ones at that. The discomfort brought him back to himself a moment. _Oh, but this was madness_ , Francis thought. Mr. Hoar could come in any moment to take away the tea things or make some announcement about the ship or the weather.

“God, James. We’d better…”

“Leave off?”

“No!” Francis said, a little more forcefully than he’d planned. “I was going to say, we should go into your bedplace, where we might have a moment to compose ourselves if Mr. Hoar should come in.”

“And how would I explain your presence there?”

“Oh, damn it, I don’t know. I’m no good at this sort of thing. I’ve not had occasion to…”

James laughed. “It’s alright. Let’s go before Mr. Hoar comes in and we are ruined.”

James stood up and took Francis by the hand and led him into his bedroom. Francis' heart skittered in excitement at the ease and confidence with which James took his hand. There was no shyness, no shame. There was nothing odd about the situation, seemingly. Once there, James lit the lamp and shut the door, with a kick from the back of his heel. Francis felt suddenly terrified. There was no precedent for this. Not in his life. His experience in general so limited that he could only continue to fumble fruitlessley with his tunic and fret about how to make the next move. Happily, James stepped to him and pushed the tunic back onto his shoulders and then to the ground. Taking another step forward, James pushed Francis back onto his bunk where he fairly leapt upon him. Francis was bowled over, knocked back deliriously, laughing between kisses. He pushed himself up onto his elbow and undid the tie on James’s robe. 

James laid back on his bunk, exquisitely naked and spread out before him. Francis maneuvered himself to lay alongside him and began to explore his body with his hands and his mouth. His fingers found the scars of his battle wounds, his lips the firm peaks of his nipples, his nose the scent of him, which was smokey and sweet. James pulled at Francis’s shirt tales, untucking him. Rather than contend with his tie and stock, he simply disappeared inside of Francis’s shirt, as if it were a tent. Francis rolled onto his back with a moan as James’s teeth worked over his chest with tender biting kisses, his hands ranging down to unfasten the front of his trousers. He took hold of Francis at the root, gripping him hard, stripping back the foreskin with one quick movement. Until then, Francis had avoided even looking at James’s cock. He wasn’t sure what James wanted. Emboldened, he ran his hand up the inside of James’s smooth, lean thigh and took hold of his cock with equal firmness. 

“Oh God, Francis,” James cried as Francis began to stroke him. 

“James!” was all Francis could manage in reply. 

To love and be loved in return. It was a simple thing and yet so rare. There was nothing to compare to it. All the words James had read in the preceding days only approached it with caution, had danced around it, described the edges, but left the feeling to the reader. You either knew or you didn't. Francis, for once in his life, understood. 

James breath in his ear, hot and insistent, the pressure of his hand on him. These were reality and Francis couldn’t last much longer against them. He pulled his shirt up and out of the way so that he could lie chest to chest with James. The heat of their bodies was intoxicating and he wanted nothing so much as to lie there with him for the whole of the night and into the foreseeable future, but James’s hands...the slick pressure, their strength and fluid movement, left him desperate. James laid his cock alongside Francis' hip, and began to rut, gently at first, against Francis, who bucked his hips up so that they moved across one another, an exquisite scissoring friction. They moved faster, always together, and sweat rose on their bodies till they were glowing in the candlelight. To be naked and wet and sliding together was a loveliness he had never thought to feel again. 

James closed his eyes, flung his head back, and bucked hard with his hips into Francis. The sight of him -- his smooth, sinuous body in the candlelight — was enough to drive Francis over the edge. He took hold of his cock as he came. James opened his eyes, looking keenly about. He took hold of Francis’s hand and led it to his cock. James closed his eyes again and fucked into Francis’s seed-slick palm, pressing it under his own, groaning. _God, what a lovely sight_ , Francis thought, and kissed James’s shoulder tenderly, watching as he slid over the edge, out of breath, crying out Francis’s name ecstatically. 

**Who can be in doubt of what followed?**

The days that followed were the best Francis could remember. He would find himself humming a tune while Jopson shaved him, breaking into blushes to hear the name “Fitzjames” in any context and finding excuses to go to Erebus for a confabulation with his fellow captain. James, for his part, took every opportunity to visit him as well, and on one occasion they were lucky enough to have the weather turn so that they were stuck for the night on the same ship. A bed was set up for Francis in the Erebus great cabin, but it was not used. He and James spent the whole blissful evening entwined naked in James’s bunk. 

In the beginning he had entangled his feelings for Sophia, and even for James Ross, with his feelings for James; had confused the sensations of making love to Sophia and embracing Ross in a dance with those of touching James. But it did not take long to move from those meager, barren lands to the rich valleys of his new conquest. James offered greater riches of emotion, and even of physical sensation.

In the daytime they were sometimes brave, and made pretense of inspecting some far flung knot of cable or cache of sail, only to use it as an excuse to lock themselves in a distant cupboard for a few sweet minutes. It was never enough, and those fleeting encounters only stoked the fires for more. To separate, to move apart, was almost physically painful. The cold only numbed him for a while, and then he would be back to burning for James.

In their eight weeks of bliss, they had no more arguments, no more “morbing,” lonely evenings. Francis shared his thoughts with James without reserve, including the fears of his blackest hours that had led to his illness. On the morning after their one full night together, Francis brought up the subject of Franklin’s death, apologizing that he had not been a better friend to James when it was needed. 

“You had your own struggles.”

“But they were all for myself, because in losing Franklin, I lost Sophia. I never mourned the man like you did. I am ashamed of it.”

“Well, since you are being so truthful, I must admit that some of my grief was for the damage his death would do to the expedition and, in turn, to my career.” Francis was shocked. James had been almost animal in his grief, allowing himself to lose control in a way that Francis never had. 

"I don't believe it. You are saying it to make me feel better."

"I was rather like Captain Benwick I'm afraid. Noisy and short-lived in my grief."

"I wouldn't say that," Francis said, aware that he had said exactly that to himself, recently. "Who is to say what is the appropriate response?"

“I do miss him sometimes. He was a kind soul, even if he wasn’t always fair to you Francis, he did try.”

"I know it. Now. I think."

“The fact that he had been unfair to you in regards to Miss Cracroft, burdened him. I tried to tell you once, but I think you misunderstood me. You were rather in your cups that evening. Not that I blame you…”

“I remember it. I could only see that you and Franklin had discussed the situation. Feel the betrayal of a broken confidence. But in truth, I never confided my feelings to Sir John. He could only assume what I felt.”

“Did you not love Miss Cracroft?”

“Of course I did. But looking back, I think it was the kind of love one has for taking a prize. I am like Captain Wentworth, comparing two minds and finding one lacking.”

“Whose is the other mind?” James asked playfully, knowing the answer already.

“Yours, of course. You were right when you said that a fellow should be able to have the person he loves without having to change his whole life for them. To give up what makes him happy.”

“When did I say that?”

“Well, it was in reference to Captain Wentworth.”

James laughed. “I said all manner of rubbish about Captain Wentworth, I don’t remember the half of which. I just wanted to get your attention in any way possible.”

“Well it worked,” Francis said, and he took James’s hand in his and brought it to his lips. “I have sometimes wondered if you left that poem for me to find on purpose.”

James smiled. “I confess I did. One evening I was left so restless, so full of...well, desire for you, to put it plainly, that I read the end of the novel. And I got the idea to leave the poem where you could find it. Thank Christ for Miss Austen, Francis; without her, I might have had to goad you to fisticuffs again.”

“Don’t speak of it, please. It’s not funny to me. It was my lowest point.”

“I promise not to speak of it. If you promise not to speak of the times I was unjust to you.”

“I was unjust to you as well! Had I put my pride aside earlier, we might not have wasted so much time. I will regret it forever.”

“No more regrets, Francis. It does us no good. We should speak only of the future. And the present, of course,” he said, laying his head on Francis’s chest.

**Domestic Virtues**

At the final meeting of the Terebus Literary Society, Francis noticed a change in the room. He had not seen it before, but now it was clearly before him. The harmony that existed between the two ships’ captains had perhaps inspired it or, more likely, it had happened without his notice, as he was so pleasantly otherwise occupied. A kind of peace had descended on both ships. The creature had not appeared in weeks. Dr. Goodsir cleared his sickbay of the last of the fire victims and attended the final Society meeting. He said that Lady Silence had taken up the thread of the story with alacrity, understanding the complex familial relationships in the book instinctively. Francis thought back to his own struggles at the beginning and realized that he should have approached it the same way, as if he were being introduced to a neighboring tribe. Mr. Blanky stopped teasing him about James when it became clear that there was more to it than rumor. Jopson had made it to the end of the book, listening by turns to whoever was reading. Of their leader, Mr. Bridgens, and his star pupil Peglar, Francis did not care to speculate, though there was obviously a great deal of affection in the case. 

Francis was determined to be as discreet as possible in his relationship with Fitzjames. Those closest to him — Blanky, Little, and Jopson — were likely completely aware, but he wanted to keep the circle as small as possible. They kept separate ships and they would keep separate tents on the trek. If one of them happened to need to consult on some matter of command in the night and ended up sharing the same sack, then so be it.

The sun stayed longer in the sky every evening and their little respite was at a close. He spent the final evening onboard with Lt. Little, going over charts, the lieutenant reassuring him that he had all he needed to lead the first sledge party. To make conversation, Francis asked how he had enjoyed _Persuasion_.

“I had read it before. In all honesty, for the first weeks of the Society, I simply relied on my earlier reading. But one evening Corporal Hedges was unable to read in the common room and Mr. Jopson engaged me to fill in, and I found that I rather enjoyed reading it to the men.”

Crozier was delighted to hear that he had taken to the scheme so thoroughly. “Edward, you have more rapport with them than you know. You took control of an unhappy ship during my illness. I have never thanked you. But I do appreciate it.”

“I’ve never expected to be thanked for doing my job.”

“No, of course. But you went so far beyond what anyone could call ‘duty’.”

“To own the truth, I am dreading leaving the ships.”

“So am I, but we have no choice now. You will be fine,” Crozier said, and returned to charting the course. Later, when Edward had left, James came and they stared at the charts wordlessly, holding hands in a kind of silent prayer.

They would walk out. They would not be buried in the wooden crypt then as James’s poem had predicted. No matter what happened, it would happen under the open sky and the eye of whatever God had not entirely forsaken them. On that day in April, Francis was happy to walk out into the sun, into the harness. Whatever was left for them, they would be together.

**Coda**

They'd been in the tent when it happened. It had started as a discussion about where and when Francis should tell the men about Lt. Frairholme's rescue party. It had ended with Francis on top of James, pressing firm kisses to his lips, pulling at his clothes in desperation. And then his fingers, still in half-gloves, found their way to the familiar divot in James' chest, and he felt the old wound give way. He had withdrawn his hand quickly, at James' yelp of pain, and found his finger damp with blood. Francis had seen the blood on James' gums, seen it drip from his scalp even, but this was worse than he had imagined. Francis had rolled onto his back, hands to his own head in frustration, wondering how he could give James his strength, his life's blood even, gritting his teeth in despair at the unfairness of it all.

And just then the alarm had gone up about Mr. Morfin, and soon after Tozer had made his shot almost taking James in the bargain. 

After that they had gone back to James' tent, silently, in shock, huddling for warmth and what little comfort Francis could give in James' sack.

A few days later, when Irving and Hartnell returned with seal meat, Francis gave James his share. When he met with the Netsilik hunters, Francis asked them if they could get their hands on whale blubber. Francis had seen it heal men, as bad or worse than James. They took him to a cache and gave him two pieces of fermented whale fat about the length of his arm. It stunk like a public lavatory, but Francis wrapped it up and hid it in his coat. Over the next few evenings, he did all but force half of it down James' throat. The rest he gave to Goodsir for distribution among the worst of the scurvy patients. When next Francis tested the divot in James side, the wound was closed. He had bought them some time at least.

The following week, Jopson spotted birds, and Mr. Blanky from his lookout on a ridge, found open water the day after that. Francis sent Blanky and Little in a boat to explore the length of the lead. The creature came one night and killed Sgt. Tozer and several others, including Mr. Hickey. Francis gave a short service the next morning, praising Mr. Hickey's recent attention to duty and concern for the security of the camp's perimeter.

Blanky and Little came back with the first mate of a whaling ship as passenger. 

The voyage back to England was crowded and uncomfortable. The two captains had to share one small cabin. They'd been forced to dump almost all of their possessions, but Francis kept the volume of _Persuasion_ , with James' poem still tucked into it as bookmark in his trunk next to the ships logs. 

Sophia Cracroft was somewhat surprised that Francis never repeated his proposal. When the initial shock of her uncle's death had passed, she forgave Francis for everything, and apologized for the way she'd made him promise look after Sir John. She seemed concerned that Francis might be lonely, but was cheered when he told her that he and Captain Fitzjames had taken lodgings together, "until the next voyage, comes along."

**The End**

**Author's Note:**

> 1)" The Lady in the Lake" is a poem by Sir Walter Scott, who also wrote novels. It is referenced in "Persuasion."  
> 2) Ode to the River Otter, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.  
> 3) Just prior to her fall, Louisa refuses to listen to Wentworth who does not want her to jump from the top of the steps. On their walk previously, Wenworth “jumped” Louisa over the styles (she jumped down from the top of the styles and he caught her.) Also on this walk, Wentworth told Louisa that she should have a firm character, like a nut, with a hard exterior immune to persuasion. He knew Anne was listening when he said this, so it was as much a stab at her as actual advice for Louisa. Blanky is referring to Wentworth’s stated guilt in the matter of Louisa’s injury.   
> 4) Henry and Emma, by Matthew Prior, based on The Nut Brown Maiden, a folk song, first published in the 16th century.


End file.
